


The Demon who had a Flower, but also belonged to it...

by Sartorelo



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M, Forgiving, Romance, a little ooc bc why not, and my first fandom work, i didn't watched the hole series, i'm so fucking scared, post season 1 end, rape mention, rooftoop, self harm mention, tate langdon - Freeform, theres a lot of rambling nonsense as well, violet talks a lot, wow this is my first english work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sartorelo/pseuds/Sartorelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was some mess someone decided to call love.<br/>And someone was them.<br/>Because no other word would fit as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Demon who had a Flower, but also belonged to it...

**Author's Note:**

> First work on english. First work on fandom. I hope it isn't that bad. Sorry for my grammar. I hope my phone doesn't fuck it up in the time to post. Good reading~  
> Warning from romanticized Tate. Also, language.

The sky was burning. It seemed wrong. It disturbed the nonchalant facade she kept raised on her expression, glued in the curves of her lips and in the bags of her eyes, pressed against her cheek so close as if it was her own skin, and somehow, that was.   
The flower needed a minute to found her ground in the rooftop, thought, and when she did, her eyes bloomed, her eyelashes long and shiny with the last lights of a Sun that, again, has settled down.   
The Sun got some rest. He didn't need to see this dumb planet for a while. He could escape from the Moon and love the stars.   
The flower envied the Sun, 'cause it could do everything she couldn't.   
It could rise.   
It could die.   
Everyone hears that at some point of their lives. The Sun has a expiate date.   
And it will not re-live after the explosion, she thinks.   
And the planet that will go crashing and exploding and all will not re-build itself from space dust.   
Sometimes, she thinks about what would happen to the ghosts, when this day finally comes. If they would just live in outer space, or go to the other side.   
Sometimes, cause time is relative when you don't need it, she asks herself if ghosts can also have a expiration date. Longer as the Sun, maybe. The flower thinks they probably don't, but sometimes are sometimes, and sometimes one can thinks bullshit.   
Because even this existential bullshit is better than the bullshit that she has to live with.   
Or better, be with.   
If she's a flower, she's a really fucked up one, if she thought the corpses fertilised ground was the better place to fix itself.   
But Violet wasn't a sweet flower. She had thorns in that gorgeous garden, with roses dark as they eyes.   
They eyes. His eyes.   
It always go back to him. He's wicked and psycho. He was a freak.   
She liked it weird, thought.   
And she wasn't that better. Being a coward and hiding, never saying the things that are gagging her throat... Well, that isn't what she wanted. She wanted to cut herself and feel permanent pain, a pain that would make her stronger, that would made her brave, fearless.   
She wanted to feel external pain, not that dead thing smashing her ribcage with feelings. Feelings for his rich voice tone, about his biceps around her, about his curly hair. For so many things.   
Feelings for him. For Tate Langdon.   
She also wasn't that naïve. She knew he was around. Lurking in the shadows, stalking her since she said for him to go.   
But away is an impossible goal, or everyone else would have been there already.   
She layed in the ceiling with a loud sigh and spreaded her legs, her arms laying dumb around her. The flower wait some time, and only when the Moon was up that she got up and sat at the edge of the ceiling.   
— I suck at hide and seek, so you have to forgive me because I only took the effort to find you after a decade. — She says to thin air, but she know he's there. She can feel his presence, and she turns her head to him so she can see Tate exactly as she thought he would be, just because they know each other that well. He's standing up, his hands behind his back as a predator, in the place where she was laying less than five minutes ago.   
They're feet away from each other but they're closer than they'd ever been for quite some while and her dead heart clenches with those feelings and it's like it has an open wound, and a really deep one.   
Looking at his face is like looking in the mirror, a devastated human being with fear-to-have-hope eyes, those black pitch iris she couldn't forget (and wouldn't, if it was up to her, if she was honest with herself). She could see the longing and the beginning of hope and so much fear and she knew love was different than forgiveness because she, oh, she loved him so badly, in such a disturbed way.   
— I have this gift of hiding. — He jokes and his voice is nothing compared to the look on his face.   
Hiding the truth. Hiding himself. Hiding his own memories from himself. Yes, she thought to herself, he has.   
Violet realises that she's a little lost in how she will say what she need to, what's been stuck in her throat for so long. The girl turns her head back to the back of the house, and her legs move a little in the ceiling in an almost childish like way.   
— I realised that. That's why I quitted this game. I called you.   
She thinks that if she'd just turned around, she'd see the way his eyes curved so slightly when he smiles, along with that spark of fear of rejection and pain that haunts him since her.   
And Violet can hear it, so that's why she doesn't need to look. Can hear when her Demon, when the flower's demon, when the demon caught up his own breath in surprise. Can hear the hesitant step he gives ahead, so small, so soft, an question where you can almost not hear the punctuation.   
— And what you want to do, now that the game's over? — The flower feels as she can feel the wind in her petals, how delicate her demon is, how he can be, but never became. How quietly he's acting, how he's thinking he can't do anything wrong, he can't fuck this up anymore, how his mind scream that he can't. She feels in his sweet quiet all the screams in his head because they know each other that well, and she taps the space close to her in an invitation with one hand a couple of times.  
— I want to talk with you, Tate. — Her voice is only a little nonchalant, a little cold. She feels his presence around her, and she knows as she knows he's the darkness itself that he's using all his strength to have patience, to not put her under his wing, to not ruin this moment. Because they both know that moment could change things up.   
— I'll ever listen to you, Violet. — He gags in the middle of her names as if he could breath only now after all that time, as of he was drowned in bleach and pure air was a miracle he no longer had believed on, not until that moment.  
— I think it's fucked up my mom forgived you so soon. — She confesses, daring to look at him from the corner of her eyes. And the girl actually thinks that. Such bullshit, just because she had an eternal baby and an eternal husband and that only three years were enough to forgive her rapist. Not even living people did that.   
— What you did, it was sick. Repulsing. I... I don't have words for how disgusting that shit was. — She can see the hurt is his face but it's superficial, because she isn't saying that with the cold dead stone tone of when she want's to be mean. She says that calmly, too calmly, in the way that originated his fascination to her and that tone could never hurt him totally. And the demon had made a promise; he would wait for that flower to bloom forevermore.   
And ten years aren't that much when you promise always. They're awful and dark and mad and so full of shit but he knows that she could have took so much longer, just as she had took to realise her own death many years ago.   
That decade wasn't that much compared to how much time she have in hands to let him suffering and he will not tell her it, not when he finally is receiving something, not when he can be that close and feel how addicting and how awesome is to just be around her, with their shoulders almost brushing and the light air.   
So he don't tell her about forevermore; he don't tell her nothing while he hear her words and breath in her voice and her eyes and the attention he's craving so badly for and that never's seems enough.   
— And she has forgiven you. That shit was unbelievable. Even you know that. — She laughs coldly. — And you've killed so many... And that shit is sick. — She looks up. Her neck rises up and her chin and jawline shine lightly with the moonlight and Tate want to caress her skin with his fingertips. He feels his own skin aching with desire but he doesn't. Instead, he puts both hands under his thighs for a moment before pulling it off and let one hand between the space between them because that's the minimum he can do for now, the maximum he can to hope for disillusion and rejection without creating another shatter in his glass heart and he tries to ignore how desperate and wanting his look is right now.   
She doesn't act like she noticed that. A small part of him, with a wise acknowledgement of a creature that can know all, and her being the softest plant around there, but still the only plant that don't burn from his touch, but rises instead. That kind of part inside him is telling another story, telling him she knows all he don't want her to know, knows how he works and every inch of him inside and out. That feeling is bittersweet because he craves that, he get's off on the fact that probably her thoughts about him occupies such a huge part of her brain.   
— You did so much of wrong. It was so wrong and bad. You hurted so many, indirectly and directly. You murdered and scared and tortured and raped and I don't know what else. But here I am, talking to you when I'm fully aware of that and fully aware that you're a psycho.   
He tries to think where did she found that term to him and the only thing he gets, for a moment, is the fact that she could have overhead that conversation with the Doctor, overheard his confession in tears.   
That confession he'd made for her.   
But then another possibility comes on his mind and he finds a new joy on it; she could have been talking about him to her father. And knowing that his name could have caressed her lips when his own couldn't. And her last phrase, it looks so sweet. Even that new nick name seems sweet in her lips, like a joke, like when she called him asshole so many time ago in their beach.   
And that makes him insane, that makes him want so many and do so many. His mind let out screams that don't reach his lips. He feels like whatever she's saying will come to an end soon and with it whatever end she chooses to be.   
— And I can't forget it, Tate. I can't just pretend nothing happened. That nothing happens at all. I can't pretend that we're just a normal bunch of teenagers. I just can't. Do you understand that?  
His eyes get that curve while he smile. His hole face gets round when he smiles, in his cheekbones, his chin, his deep dimples... How could a demon look so much like an angel just from a smile?   
How could a small flower be able to held such monstrous and gigantic feeling for something like that?  
How didn't matter. It could. She felt like any other thing was impossible.   
The blonde nods, his smile fading a little.   
— So you understand that I can't understand what you did, that I'll never will. And that I will feel regret and anger from time to time and I will want to smack that... — Beautiful. Gorgeous. Awesome. — that face of yours.   
He don't tell, but he finds the though hot. Her skin against him, rough. Her fist running through his cheek like he did with the tracks. Punching him in a way that held so much feeling that only a girl in love could punch like.   
Yes, that kind of (declaration) punch would be sexy.   
— But I think I can try. I think we can try.   
Tate feel like he could cry and when her hand is on top of him, so slightly, just brushing with his fingertips, he melt.   
And as the Moon goes it's way, they stay. 


End file.
